


The Honorable Dead

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their first journey home from Kattegat, Ragnar and Athelstan talk about death.</p><p>Set during 1x03</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Honorable Dead

The screams woke him again.

Athelstan screamed himself, as he started awake. He sat bolt upright, sweat dripping down his forehead, and looked around, disoriented. It wasn't until he heard the voice that he began remembering where he really was: Not at home in Lindisfarne, while all around him his brothers fell, but in a cold, strange country, sleeping in a grove of trees beside the man who had taken him from his home—the man who had, only a few hours before, laid claim to him as a slave, and was now journeying to bring his new possession home.

"Athelstan? What is it?" His captor rubbed sleep out of his own eyes with one hand; the other curled around the haft of his axe. "Did you see something? A wolf?"

Athelstan shook his head, wincing a little at the rope around his neck chafing as he did so. "No." He fumbled around, reaching for his precious gospel. As his hand found it, he relaxed somewhat. "No wolves. It was only a dream. I am sorry, Ragnar Lothbrok—Master."

The man's grip on his weapon relaxed and he smiled. "Just Ragnar will do."

Athelstan returned the smile, though it felt odd to do so. "Ragnar. Thank you. I am sorry that I woke you, however."

Ragnar shrugged. "No harm done. I was dreaming myself. What was your dream, if I may ask?"

Athelstan looked away, his mouth stilled by trepidation.

"You were frightened enough by it to scream," Ragnar prompted.

Athelstan nodded. "I was . . . I was back at Lindisfarne. At my monastery—my temple. When it . . . when you . . ."

"When we raided."

"Yes." Athelstan still couldn't meet Ragnar's eyes.

Ragnar sighed. "I am sorry for that."

Athelstan looked up, startled. "What?"

"We kill when we raid. It's just what we do. People will defend their treasures, so we must make sure they won't harm us when we take our spoils."

Athelstan nervously rubbed the binding of his gospel. "My brothers would never have fought you. We are men of peace. You did not need to kill us in order to take our gold and silver."

"We had no way of knowing that."

Athelstan looked down again, understanding the truth of what Ragnar said.

"But I, at least, am still sorry that my men had to kill your fellow priests. I know many Northmen love killing for its own sake. I do not."

Athelstan scanned his captor’s face for signs that he might be insincere, but he found none. He still wanted to feel nothing but revulsion and fear, but he couldn’t help that other feelings had been bubbling up inside him since the moment the man first spared his life. All around him, Ragnar’s fellow Northmen were brutes—savages—yet he could tell something about Ragnar was different. It fascinated him, in ways he could not understand. A spark of boldness opened his mouth again. “May I ask . . . Did you?”

“Did I what?”

Athelstan heaved a calming breath. “Did you kill anyone? Any of my brothers, I mean.”

Ragnar scanned his face, seeming to be deep in thought. “No,” he finally said. “I didn’t see a reason to. I would have if I needed to, though.”

“Did your people leave anyone alive?”

Ragnar shrugged. “Maybe. Some might have managed to flee or hide where we could not find them. And then there are the others who were taken for slaves, of course.”

Athelstan hung his head. He had a suspicion that the others who had made the journey would likely have short lives, as they didn’t speak the language. Reflexively, he crossed himself. “ _Requiescat in pace_ ,” he murmured.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “Is that your language? The language of the Saxons?”

“No. I mean, yes, it’s one of my languages, but it isn’t Saxon. It’s Latin. It’s the language of our faith.”

Ragnar scooted a little closer. “What was it you just said?”

Athelstan flushed. “Rest in peace. It’s a blessing to wish grace for the dead.”

“I see.” Ragnar stroked his beard. “We say words for our dead, too. We celebrate them, usually. Our warriors go to Valhalla when they die in battle. It is a great honor for them.”

“We don’t exactly celebrate death, but we do honor it. We especially honor those who die in service of the faith.”

Ragnar frowned. “How so?”

Athelstan pondered for a moment, trying to think of the words in the man’s language that might explain what he meant. “Our faith is built around sacrifice. Our God—actually, his son and Earthly presence, Jesus—sacrificed himself for faith, and so, too, we honor others who do the same. We call them martyrs.”

“Oh.” Ragnar still looked confused. “So . . . would your fellow priests—your brothers, you called them?—would they be these . . . martyrs because my men killed them?”

“Theoretically, yes. If they died trying to protect the monastery and our works there, then yes.”

“And would you have been a martyr if I had killed you?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan set his jaw and looked down. He still clutched the Gospel, and he traced fingertips over its cover. “Probably, yes.”

“Why then did you beg me not to kill you?”

Athelstan felt an uncomfortable wash of shame. In truth, he probably should have been killed with all the others. He had believed, at first, that God had stayed Ragnar’s hand, but he realized now that it was only his plea—in Ragnar’s language—that had done so. It wasn’t God. It was his own selfish desire to stay alive. He had tried to rationalize it as wanting to protect the Gospel, but now he knew better. “Because,” he whispered, “I did not want to die.”

“You did not want to be this . . . martyr?”

Athelstan felt his eyes welling up. He shook his head. “Father, forgive me,” he murmured to himself.

Ragnar lifted a hand. For a moment, Athelstan was afraid he was about to be struck. But then Ragnar simply patted his head, as if one might pet an animal. “If it’s any consolation, I am glad you spoke up.”

Athelstan’s jaw dropped.

Ragnar smiled. “I like you.” Then his body stiffened somewhat, and his smile took on an edge. “And I think you’ll make a useful slave. We need the help on the farm.”

The hint of hope that had risen in Athelstan’s chest faded somewhat. “Well, I hope I can serve, then,” he said, somewhat flatly.

“I’m sure you will.” Ragnar lay back down. “But for now, you should get some sleep. We still have a morning’s walk ahead of us before we get to my home. You’ll need the rest.”

“Yes, of course.” Athelstan settled down himself, wriggling a little to try to get in a position more comfortable with the rope in the way.

“Sleep well,” Ragnar whispered. “And I hope your dreams are more pleasant.”


End file.
